Misery
by Niamh is searching for a muse
Summary: Trunks' journey back in time has repercussions more far reaching than he could ever imagine...not as dark as it sounds.
1. Misery Ch1

Well, here it is, my next story, I've decided to break my own rules and post it before I have it entirely written (I do have an outline though) perhaps this way I will be able to make better use of your comments and suggestions. You'll be able to tell the timeline this is set in, it is pretty obvious. I know I haven't written it exactly as it was in the show, but if I did, what would be the point of me writing it? It is the same idea though. Oh, I put tildes (~) in to denote when the setting changes.

I don't own anything blah blah blippity blah don't sue me.

-Niamh

Misery

Danger swept over the hills, piercing the air with an electric currant, trailing fear behind it. The prince could sense it; it left a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach, a sour smell in the air and a bitter taste in his mouth. This wasn't a heightened power level, there wasn't a power level at all, the prince scented this threat through pure instinct. He could feel it, as the threat clamped an icy hand, like a vice, around his stomach. Turning to his friend, the prince quirked a lavender eyebrow over a sad, blue eye that had seen far more than any thirteen-year-old ought. Without saying a word his friend nodded and they both shot into the air, racing toward the growing danger.

This threat had scented the air for twelve years now, for twelve years the prince's life had been filled with screams and suffering and tears and pain, for twelve years he had known only fear and preparation. He was convinced now, as they flew, faster than any bird, faster than the wind, two burning sparks slipping through the air under a white-gray sky that promised rain, that he was fully prepared to meet this enemy. He was wrong.

Despite twelve years of rape and battery, the home the prince knew was still beautiful. He flew over jagged mountain ranges so sharp that they cut the sky and it bled dry, white blood, gently dusting the crests with a frozen glaze of snow, flowering fields that sent up the smell of spring almost powerful enough to drown out the acrid scent of danger, sunsets bursting with all the reds, bright-golds and yellows of the autumn leaves, and gentle pools reflecting so much sun and green that drinking them was like drinking the summer. But there was ugliness there too. Forests, scorched and scarred from too many battles, oceans reeking of death and decay, countless species exterminated, and this enemy, so cold, so empty.

As they reached the city where the enemy waited the prince struggled to keep the tears from his eyes. Death was everywhere. Buildings, hundreds of stories high, crumbled to the ground, leaving only mangled, twisted metal reaching out like terrible grasping claws. Bodies lay everywhere covered in blood, expressions of terror fixed on their faces. 

"Bastards" the prince muttered.

His friend still said nothing, but as he turned the prince could see the sorrow etched on his face. The prince didn't even notice when his friend's fist shot out to strike him. Letting out a strangled cry the prince fell to join the countless bodies that littered the ground.

"Sorry" his friend whispered before turning sharply on his heel and stalking away from the body of his best friend. 

It was not until the afore-promised rain began to fall that the prince woke to discover that his only friend was dead.

~

In an endless dream, in a ceaseless mist, in a place untouched by time the daughter of the guardian paused to stare through the gates. Hearing the thin whip-snap of the fleeing wind and scraps of words that were barely familiar she was both frightened and tantalized.

The outside world had always fascinated her. Her father was out there, somewhere, that was all her mother ever told her about him, she almost never spoke of him, there was a sadness there, deeper and more painful than the child could understand. But more than her father, Mesiree was fascinated by the words outside the gates. Outside, words seemed to mean so much more than they did within.

Her mother, the guardian, concerned by her daughter's preoccupation, stepped up beside her. "What is it Mesiree?" she asked softly, "What do you see?"

The child didn't respond immediately and the guardian ran a hand tenderly through her daughter's hair. The child looked nothing like her mother. She had not inherited the guardian's stunning height or emerald hair, she was a small, fey little thing with hair like brushed gold, exactly like her father. The only thing that labeled her as her mother's daughter was her eyes. Mesiree's eyes were a few shades darker than her mother's garnet ones, they resembled ripe mulberries and were, at that moment, still watching the gate intently.

"Mesiree?" the guardian asked again, "What is it?"

The child blinked and pursed her lips thoughtfully. Eventually she produced a word that meant nothing within the time gates. "Misery."

Her mother sighed sadly, "Come away now dear," she whispered, tenderly stroking her daughter's hair again.

"What is it mother?" the child asked softly.

The guardian quirked her eyebrow in a question.

"Misery," the child said, "what is it?"

The guardian lifted a hand to press her fingers against the bridge of her nose. "Misery," she said sadly, "is a thing that means nothing, until it means everything. Now come away from the gates."

The child smiled and turned away from the gates, the terrible visions therein all but forgotten.

~

The prince's misery permeated the world, his screams filled the air for miles and his tears hung in the eyes of everyone who could hear. He had lost his best friend, his only friend. Golden power flickered around him as tears streamed down his face and rain soaked his clothing. The prince cradled his friend's head in his arms. The man, a few years older than the prince, looked terrible. His body was covered with cuts and deep gashes, blood was everywhere, his arm had been ripped off in an earlier battle but the mostly healed wound appeared to have reopened, soaking the bandage with too much blood. "Gohan," the prince whispered softly, "why the hell did you do that? What the hell were you thinking?"

The threat, the prince noticed, was nowhere to be found, it had disappeared once again, over the mountains, leaving behind only a slight, acrid smell and too much blood.

Standing, the prince let out a scream filled with pain and anger. Burning power swirled around him and his eyes snapped and icy green. "I did it Gohan," he muttered through clenched teeth, "I finally did it."

~

Mesiree skipped happily through the mist that hung constantly in the gates. A few years had passed since she had stared out the gates at the boy with lavender hair. After that day her mother had kept a closer eye on the girl, had tried to keep her occupied and focused on life inside the gates by teaching her things the guardian had learned long ago to entertain herself with.

The child was now practicing one of her favorites, one of the more difficult ones for her, with a small glass ball as she skipped through the mist. The trick was simple, drop the ball, stop it just above the ground and set it down gently, but it required strict concentration, which the child had very little of. She chanted the steps over and over to herself as if she were afraid she would forget them.

"Drop…Stop…Now down gently…Drop…Stop…Now gently down." Her small voice rang out through the mist as the little glass ball fell to the ground, halted, mere centimeters from peril, and was set gently down, only to be picked up so she could repeat the trick once more.

~

The prince stood beside his mother as she put the finishing touches on a strange bulbous machine they had put all their faith into. Three years had passed since his friend had died, three years since he had vowed to destroy the enemy, he had failed. Now this was all they had left, a long shot, but it was their only hope. He missed his friend and he felt that he needed his mentor, so he would go back in time and fix things. 

"Are you sure about this Trunks?" his mother asked, suddenly worried.

"I have to mother" the prince said, determination gleaming in his eye.

His mother sighed slightly but stepped aside to allow him into the machine, "Be careful," she said softly.

Trunks smiled gently at her has he stepped in, "You know I will."

~

The guardian walked distractedly through the gates. She could hear her daughter still practicing her trick not far away. 

"Drop…Stop…Now gently down."

The guardian smiled happily to herself, it'd been months since her daughter had even glanced out the gates. It was safer that way, over fascination with the outside world would lead to trouble, it might make the child want to leave and the woman, who was older than time, who had lived centuries alone before the girl had been born, was now afraid she'd be lonely without her, she was frightened of how silent the gates would be if her daughters soft, bell-like voice did not ring through them.

"Drop…Stop…Now down gently."

The guardian glanced momentarily out the gates while a mother embraced her son, seemingly for the last time. "What?" the guardian whispered, looking closer. The boy stepped into a machine she had never seen before. Immediately the guardian waved a hand and the picture was magnified. Squinting her eyes she tried to discern what it was that these people were planning. Suddenly her eyes widened and she swore loudly as the ground beneath her began to shake. "Mesiree!" she screamed as all around her the fabric of time tore, "Misery!"

~

Trunks stepped into the time machine and set the controls. With one last wave to his mother he flipped the switch and the time machine jerked into motion.

The flight back in time was mostly uneventful. It took only a second and was traveled in complete darkness; aside from a few odd sounds he noticed nothing.

~

Inside the time gates the guardian's screams died away and a little glass ball crashed to the ground.

~

In a place between times, between worlds, boundaries tore and things never meant to be seen were set loose. Pulled from dreams, from nightmares, from children's screams, women's tears and men's cries. Made from hunger and cold, something more terrible than war or winter, a formless fury, a shadow so inky thick that people lost themselves in it. A terror so horrible it stopped men's hearts and snatched women's breath from their breast.

Please tell me what you think

P.S. The next chapter of Moonstruck should be coming out soon.

-Niamh


	2. Misery Ch2

Ahhh, this took so long, sorry! I think the only business I have to attend to is my lovely reviewers (feel free to berate me if I have forgotten anything).

Talysmin, this is just for you, everyone else, take it or leave it, it has nothing to do with Misery, it was posted for Talysmin who was complaining about…well…having nothing to complain about.

Onece upan a thyme there was a grl named Usage. This grl was infininatly beautiful, infinatly powerfill and enfinatly wise and everbody loved her, or soo she thought. One dey, after having lunch with the outers, who were all infenatly perfect and loving, she went to a meating with the inner senshshi. Whan she arrved there she herd many strange grunts and moans coming from the tample. Usagi, being the conscientious grl she was, thought someone was in trouble and bolted up the stares. What she found there was a mass orgy with hundreds of people and right in the center was Mamory with many naked women clinging to him., including all the inners, Molly, some girls she had never seen before, a couple of three year olds and two or three women who couldn't have been younger than 90.

"W-what is this?" Usage asked, hororrified.

"Just a welcomeing party." Mamory smirked. "We've decided to tell you that we all hate you ." everyone int the room paused what they were doing to nod there heads. "And that Marge is our new leader." Mamoru pulled a woman who looked to be about 110 out of the crawd.

"Now be a good little grl and hand over the crystal." Marge cackled, smiling and evil, toothless grin.

Usage, being the perfect human being that she was, quickly got over her amazment and horror. "No." she said, looking strait at Marge. "You have all betrayed me and you will pay!" Usage then blinked very deliberately and everyone in the tample died in a flash o fire and brimestone.

Suddenly Sestuna appeared with a very long list in her hands. Stepping over the charrred bodies she began to speak very rapidly. "Hello princess, I've come to send you to your true home where you'll find…" Sestuna held the piece of paper up to her face, "ah, your father, your brother, your reel scouts, your son, your true love, your aunts uncles and cousins, your grand father and, oh yes, you will save the world. Buy now!"

There was a flash of light and suddenly Usage was plummeting to the ground. But of course, being the amazeingly graceful being that she was, she managed to piroette, sommersault, make a pot of tea and save a school bus full of orphans and nuns all before landing with cat-like grace on her feet in the middle of a battle.

Immediately she sent an army of pink fluffy pink bunnies to devour the monster. She then turned to the group of people who had previously been fighting and the crowd that had gathered to watch.

"Father!" she cried as she hugged one of the men. "Brother! Grandpa! Grandma! Auntie! Uncle!…" this continued into the night and well into the morning until she finally finsished with "Third cousin once removed!" buy this time she had hugged everyone who had gathered, all except for a short man sulking by himself.

"Don't touch me!" he grumbled when she walked up to hym.

Usage quirked a perfect eyebrow at the man who only came up to her shoulder. "And what are you going to do about it little man?"

His andger flared as she continued to speak.

"And dear heart that spandex is much to revealing for you, it's far to easy for the whole world to seen that your not…er…very well endowed."

In fury Vegeta attacked her, butt the all powerful Usage swatted him away like a fly.

Then, suddenly, they fell madly in love and Usage discover that they were really **magical** spandex that served to disguise his magnificence. So they all lived happily ever affter with Usage as the perfect leader of the perfect world and Vegita promising never to hurt a fly, or loose his temper, or yell at all, or train, or spike his hair, or be so short, or breate to much, or…

That was really long, I'm sorry, I just got on a roll. Does anyone know how hard it is to start typing and spelling right just after a page and a quarter of deliberately being atrocious?

Misty: I admit it, I'm addicted to commas! They're just so seductive with their dot, that little curve and that come hither pause! I need help! I need a support group, Comma-holics Anonymous, will you be my comma buddy? I can see the IMs now…

Niamh: Misty I need help.

Misty: Don't do it Niamh!

Niamh: I want to! I want to type a comma!

Misty: No. just calm down Niamh. You don't have to-

Niamh: But I need them!

Misty: No you don't!

Niamh: Yes!,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

Misty: NO! Damn you commas! Damn you!

* sighs *I'm in a very strange mood today.

Niamh

Ten years had passed since the prince had gone back in time, ten years and so little had changed. After a few tries he had finally been able to defeat the androids, but it had been an empty victory. Trunks' little jaunt through time had fixed nothing; he had succeeded only in tearing the two timelines apart, when he returned home his world was still destroyed.

There were some survivors, of the billions that had inhabited the earth about two hundred remained. He and his mother had gathered them all into a single walled city and formed a community. Slowly their numbers began to grow.

The people had elected Trunks as their leader, deaf to his claims of incompetence. Once his mother accidentally let it slip that he was a prince they had gone wild and he was trapped. They wouldn't leave him alone so Trunks grudgingly accepted the responsibility, hoping that their love of him would die out quickly. It did not. Ten years had passed and he was still sitting in a dull gray room every morning, slouched in his chair as his advisors droned on about things he didn't want to know.

The prince was simply burnt out. He had held sole responsibility for this world for thirteen years, ever since Gohan had died. For thirteen years he had held this world on his back and he was tired, he just wanted to rest. But no one seemed willing to let him do that. Impatiently he blew a strand of lavender hair out of his face, he closed his eyes and lett the advisors dull, shaky voice wash over him and drift away. Suddenly his eyes snapped open. Laundry, he was talking about laundry! Momentarily letting his temper get the better of him the prince shot up, knocking his chair over in the process.

"S-Sire?" the advisor asked, now visibly shaking.

Trunks passed a hand wearily over his face, this was probably the reason everyone was so frightened of him. Somehow he had grown into his father's legendary temper, though he could usually keep it in check. "I'm sorry," he said with a sigh, turning to right the chair behind him, only to find it had already been done. He clenched his fists and turned back, Trunks would never get used to being waited on hand and foot. "I simply fail to understand why I need to hear about the laundry." He finished, his teeth only slightly clenched.

"W-Well," the advisor stuttered.

"They are having problems keeping up," Bran cut in, "they've requested more help and a larger space."

Bran was the only person who seemed able to speak an entire sentence to the prince without stuttered or trembling. He was perhaps the one who really ought to be running the city, he knew far more about it than Trunks did. 

"Impossible." The prince muttered sitting back down. "We're still low on housing, we can't add onto the washrooms until we catch up on that. As for personnel, tell them…tell them to work harder, all they do is wash for god's sake."

"R-Right." The advisor mumbled, flipping loudly through the pages of paper in his hands. "L-Lets see…ah-" he said, finally stopping on a page, "there w-was another disturbance, t-this time in s-sector four."

The prince flew out of his chair once more, but this time it was not out of anger, but out of urgency. "Like the others?" he asked, his voice hushed.

"Y-yes sir."

"I'm going to check it out." He said, walking briskly to the door.

"Your highness-" Bran started, catching his arm.

"I'm going!" the prince growled, wrenching himself from Bran's grasp. "I'll be back in a few hours." His voice had calmed considerably and had dropped to a chilly tone that made it clear that there would be no more discussion. He quickly left the room before Bran could say anything more.

Trunks could feel his anger slowly building as he walked among the squat stone houses. "Laundry," he simmered, "they told me about laundry before they mentioned this." Straining to keep his anger in check the prince ground his teeth and clenched his fists, trying not to look at the people who had crowded onto their doorsteps, their faces a mingling of fear and awe. Trunks was so busy not paying attention that he barely noticed when a small hand tugged at his curled fist. When the tug became more insistent he whipped around, nearly knocking a little girl off her feet. 

"Sorry." He muttered, but she seemed not to have noticed.

"It's pretty," she whispered, pointing to the small sparks of power that were igniting around the prince. 

Trunks sighed, struggling to cool his temper. "What do you want?" he asked, forcing his eyes to remain a clear, crisp blue.

"My mommy says you can fly." The girl said softly. "Can you?"

"No." the prince growled, trying to walk away.

"But you're the prince!" the girl cried, running in front of him, effectively halting his progress. "And you're a hee-ro, you stopped the andy- the andy- you stopped the robots, you _can_ fly, you can!"

Trunks groaned softly, he'd been turned into some sort of nursery story, this was why he didn't use his true strength out in the open, it only served to bolster their awe of him. He looked at this little girl standing in front of him, she couldn't have been more than five, her eyes were slowly filling with tears as she insisted that he was a hero, faster than a speeding bullet, the voice of truth and justice, rob from the rich and give to the poor, someone these kids who lived in a world that stood on the brink of total annihilation, someone these kids could look up to, someone to give them hope. Trunks put a hand to his forehead and swore softly before he shot off into the air. As he sped away he could hear the little girl squealing loudly back on the ground.

As Trunks landed in sector four he could feel all his anger drain away to be replaced with a terrible weariness and a heavy sadness. There wasn't a building left standing, almost as if an enormous gust of wind had come and simply pushed the buildings over. There were probably people in there, he thought absently, trapped under the rubble. There were already people poking around in the wreckage, salvage crews and clean-up crews, picking over the disaster to see what they could save.

The prince had to lock his knees to keep them from buckling beneath him. Twenty-five people, an eighth of the population now lay lifeless in the dirt. Trunks walked slowly to the nearest victim and knelt by their side. There was no blood, no lacerations or evidence of any sort of struggle. It was a woman; she had long black hair and sea-green eyes. The only clue to how she died was the expression of terror fixed on her face.

"I beg your pardon highness," spoke a woman's voice beside him. Trunks looked up to see a woman squatting next to him, grasping a bulging bag with a number four stamped on the side. "I'm sorry sire," she said quietly, "but I need to take her clothing."

Trunks nodded slowly as he stood and stepped to one side. This woman hadn't stuttered at all while she spoke to him, but he knew better than to think that it was because she knew not to fear him. The woman was from the washroom; she was one of those who they sent out to collect the clothing off of dead bodies. Trunks had noticed that the people they sent out for that seemed to be more or less numb to all emotion, he wasn't sure they could survive doing what they did if they weren't. It sickened him slightly to watch as the collector carefully removed the dead woman's shirt, as she carefully avoided looking into the dead woman's face, into her wide, fearful, glazed eyes. Eventually he had to turn away or risk retching. He understood why it had to be done, their supplies were extremely limited, they couldn't waste even a single sock by burying it in the ground, but Trunks was thankful that he wasn't the one who had to do it.

Two hours passed before Trunks finally headed back. He had spent much of the time wandering aimlessly through the rubble, searching diligently for any clues. He found none. The wall around the city had not been touched, there were no patches of new stone, but immediately inside that wall everything had been torn up, buildings, gardens, even the stone paths. There was no way to make sense of it; the same thing had happened a week earlier is sector two. That raised the death toll to fifty, yet there was no sign of what had killed them, no blood, no poison, no survivors, nothing but fifty dead bodies that appeared to have been scared to death.

The prince flew home, for once not caring that someone may glance up and see him. Fifty people, a fourth of the population gone in a week and no clear reason behind it. He did not immediately return to his headquarters. Instead he headed toward the remains of Capsule Corp. Ruins, destroyed by time and androids, they lay just to the west of the town center, just to the west of his headquarters. He had not yet been able to tear them down, though he knew he should, these ruins were the only place he knew he could be alone. No one ever went there, they seemed to hold the same frightening power that he himself did. People refused to set foot anywhere near this place and so the prince had never destroyed them.

He headed to where the gravity room used to be. It didn't work anymore, the ceiling had caved in and even if it hadn't there wouldn't be enough electricity to power it, but the prince had cleared the floor of all debris and this was where he went to train. Trunks glanced longingly at the control panel for a moment before he stepped in. "Damn I miss electricity." He muttered softly. They'd had a generator at Capsule Corp that they'd been able to salvage, but all the power that produced went to the hospital and the water purifiers. The rest of the city had to make due with fire. His mother had created a new fuel, produced from resources more plentiful than trees to replace the wood that was quickly running out, but fire could not run a gravity machine or a computer, so people had to do without. Shaking his head slowly to clear it the prince began to release the anger that had built up that morning and the fury that had simmered just below the surface of his sorrow while he was in sector four.

By the time he had finished, Trunks was drenched in sweat and completely exhausted. He fell asleep in the ruins of the gravity room, alone under the starless sky.

I hope you all enjoyed that, I hope I didn't make too many mistakes. Anyway, review please, they brighten my day!

Niamh


	3. Misery Ch3

My toe hurts, I just stubbed it and it's bleeding, but I'm going to type this chapter anyway, it's been too damn long. Ok, so it hasn't been that long, but I'm needy and my reviews have dried up and I just read way too many really bad stories in this section and I like to think mine is a little less pitiful than some of them. I'm going to try to answer any pressing reviewer's issue by memory because I'm too lazy to look up what you guys said…

Almaseti: The 'Usage' story was really long, I know. I actually did consider posting it by itself, but I didn't want to post it as a chapter (I get so frustrated when I think a story is updated and it turns out that it's just something stupid having nothing to do with the story) and I didn't want to post it as it's own story because it was really dumb and inevitably some idiot was going to take it seriously and I didn't have time to mock them mercilessly. Sorry to break up the story like that for you though. I solemnly swear not to write any more stories with unbearable spelling, atrocious grammar and a painfully overdone plot (it was way too hard anyway).

Azure-chan: Yes, that's right; I'm a hypocritical bitch. Ha! Ha! Ha! * insert maniacal laugh here * err…well..yeah…thanks.

Misty: I am so enormously happy that you like this! I have another on the way that I hope will not disappoint. I'm glad that I may have inspired you (I just reread some of your stories. I had almost forgotten how amazing you were!). Though I don't remember if that comment was in the review that disappeared or the one everyone else could see. As I have already made apparent I would be more than willing to trade brains with you (though you would be getting a rather raw deal methinks).

P.S. Notice the utter lack of commas in this reply (though judging from the other responses and this chapter I can claim very little progress. Sorry! I'll keep trying).

-Niamh

Mesiree splashed dripping, chapped hands into the cloudy water groping beneath the pearly murk for a handful of fabric to pull to the top. She found it and dragged it up, rubbing the cloth against itself and the board clamped on the side of her cauldron. When she finished she dropped it down a chute to her left and reached her hand once again down into the water. She plunged it down up to her elbow and then to her shoulder until her wrinkled fingers scrapped the metal bottom.

She pulled her hand out, dripping with soapy murky-white water. Leaning on the edge of her black cauldron she breathed deeply, trying to pull enough oxygen into her lungs from the hot, humid air. Mesiree washed linens tucked away in a corner of the washrooms. To her right were two girls that washed the clothing, to her left one that helped with the linens and two that washed what was left, towels, washrags and other things that were neither clothing nor linen. There were always people bustling around, but they rarely spoke to her and she never spoke to them. Mesiree never spoke at all.

One of the menders had said once, as Mesiree emerged from her cauldron, splashed with the cloudy water, her hair soaked so as to make the color indistinguishable, her face and bare arms flecked with stray threads and drowned nits form the sheets she'd been washing, the mender had said the Mesiree was hardly human. They called her sprite or elf, something escaped from Fairy, something that had lost its way.

"She looks like misery itself" they had said when they found her out beneath the clotheslines, no one thought to call her anything else, so she was Mesiree. Mesiree was all bones and angles, pale as a sheet with a face as unimpressive as soapsuds. She never wept, she rarely smiled, she never spoke. As she grew older she still seemed to retain a remarkable blankness in her features. It seemed that there was nothing to snag the eye or for the mind to remember, as if her face induced forgetfulness. 

Suddenly, the small ping of a bell sounded above her. Immediately Mesiree's head jerked up. She answered to the bell as she answered to her name, quickly, faithfully. A soft buzzer sounded and the chute above her opened dropping a sack full of dirty linens. Mesiree knew the routine. The sack would drop into the cauldron, if she didn't catch it it would splash the water over the sides, so she recited the steps in her head 'Drop. Stop. Now down gently." The buzzer sounded again and once more she recited the steps silently. 'Drop. Stop. Now gently down.' As the words echoed in her mind she felt as if there were something more to them, as if an untouched power lay behind them. Perhaps if she'd been able to say them she would have been able to unlock their secret, but she could not so she was left to wonder. Straight away she began scrubbing the linens. These were from sector three where the nits had taken hold; they floated by the dozen up to the surface. She flicked them out onto the flagstones where the sweeper, bent and twisted with tufts of snow white hair with a crooked, knarled broom that might very well have grown to be a part of him clutched in his crooked knarled hands. He glanced up and smiled softly at Mesiree as he swept by, brushing the dead nits into the drain, but Mesiree had already turned back to her washing. 

Mesiree nearly dove into the water as she struggled to drag the fabric up from the bottom. Pull. Scrub. Pull. Scrub. Pull. Scrub. Toss. Pull. Scrub. Pull. Scrub. Toss. Everything had a rhythm; everything had a pattern to follow. When she had pulled, scrubbed, and tossed the last sheet she leaned wearily against her cauldron, closing her eyes and breathing deeply.

"Mesiree!"

She was shaken from her reverie as she responded immediately to her name. Mesiree followed the thread of the call through the washroom, stepping around the dryers and ironers, ducking under tables and skipping over puddles of water. The washroom was filled with sounds, the hum of the mender's chatter, the roar of the ironer's fire, the slosh of the washer's water, the patter of the ironer's feet constantly running over the flagstones, the heavy thump of wet linens dropping into the chute and somewhere within was Mesiree's name, snaking out and settling in her ears, pulling her toward the wash mistress.

"Mesiree!" the woman cried again and Mesiree appeared in front of her, shapeless dress dripping, expressionless face gazing up. "Here dear." The large rosy woman said in a throaty robust voice, pushing a basket of wet linens into her hands. "We're running low on dryers, I need you to go hang these in the yard. Work harder he says!" she snorted softly. "Oh well" the wash mistress sighed, "One can't expect the prince to understand the washroom." Impatiently she shoed Mesiree out the door.

Mesiree struggled with the awkward basket. It was big enough for her to curl up in and filled with damp linens. Finally she set the basket down and dragged it across the lawn. She did not look past the clotheslines, she focused only on the damp bedding in the basket. This, like everything, had a rhythm. Bend. Stand. Clip. Bend. Stand. Clip. Steps repeating themselves endlessly as Mesiree made her way down the line, dragging the basket after her. Bend. Stand. Clip. She had acquired a remarkable concentration on the task at hand.

As she finished she spared one glance around the yard. There was a soft carpet of brown-green grass crunching under her feet, across the yard was a stand of fruit trees hung heavy with ripe red fruits she had never tasted. Up in the sky white wisps of clouds hung, oddly reminding her of mist and filling her with a longing she could not understand. Bending to pick up the now empty basket, Mesiree slowly shook her head and went inside, pushing away the painful heaviness in her chest.

"Good girl." The wash mistress said as Mesiree brought back the empty basket and stared up at the tall woman blankly. "Your such a strange child" the woman murmured. "You look so simple, but sometimes…" her voice trailed off as she traced a finger down Mesiree's cheek. "Oh well," she sighed "it's just as well that you're so plain, you'll never be expected to do anything more."

The wash mistress turned her back abruptly to scold an ironer who had scorched a man's shirt and Mesiree turned to weave her way back to her cauldron. There was more bustle while she headed back. The washing from sector four had just come in and with it stories enough to keep nearly every tongue in the washroom busy.

Mesiree wound her way around the ironer's oven, crawling under their warm tables as a group of dyers hustled by.

"Sector four," one of the ironers muttered as Mesiree skittered around their feet and ducked under dangling arms of shirts and hems of dresses that draped off the tables.

"Just like the others." this was one of the menders as Mesiree sidestepped their baskets full of thread and fabric scraps.

"Two whole blocks just wiped out." A dryer whispered as he skittered by and Mesiree tucked herself in a corner to avoid being run over.

"Like they weren't even expecting it." This was a washer, murmuring softly to the girl next to her as Mesiree returned to her cauldron.

Quickly she began to pull and scrub once more. The buzzer had sounded while she'd been gone and dropped two sacks of laundry into her cauldron. No one had been there to stop them and put them gently down so Mesiree's bare feet stood in a shallow puddle of quickly cooling water. These sacks had been from sector four, she could tell by the large number stamped on the outside. Someone in the level above had made a mistake. This sack was filled with clothing: shirts skirts, socks. But Mesiree washed whatever fell into her cauldron, she opened the sack and began scrubbing. Unlike the others in the washroom, however, Mesiree didn't gasp or tremble. These shirts, those socks, they'd all been pulled off dead bodies but that didn't mean anything to Mesiree. She had never seen a dead body or sector four, those things were for other people's lives, Mesiree only had the washing. Her life was filled with laundry, past present and future were all filled with buzzers and bells, the sound of her name and an endless sack of dirty laundry stretching as far back as she could remember and as far forward as she cared to look. These things left no room for bodies or sector four or even venturing past the clotheslines. 

Mesiree finished the load from sector four just as the dryers were scampering out to bring in the last load from the lines.

"Mesiree!"

Mesiree jerked herself out of her cauldron, trailing murky water behind her as she threaded her way through the hot, clammy washrooms once more.

"Bring in the wash." The wash mistress said briskly, pushing an empty basket into her hands.

Mesiree headed back out to the lawn, the crisp, under watered grass crunching under her feet. Carefully she unpinned the dry washing from the line, putting the clips into the large front pocket of her skirt and folding the shirts, socks and dresses back into the basket. As she folded them, Mesiree studied the small symbols stitched into the inside of the clothing with different colored thread. There was a blue circle, a red square, a yellow flower. Everyone in the city had a different symbol sewn into their clothing. The symbols were there so that everyone got the right clothing back when it returned from the wash. After the last load of washing came in from the lines the menders would be busy ripping the little symbols out and replacing them with new ones. There were so many symbols now that wouldn't be needed, so many that could be reassigned, but Mesiree didn't think about that. Mesiree thought only of the bright threads. Her own symbol was a small blue droplet, like the water that dripped off her hands when she pulled them from her cauldron.

Mesiree struggled with the over-full basket back through the door and placed it on one of the ironer's tables. Quickly she skittered back to her cauldron, ducking under tables and into corners to avoid being trampled. The buzzer would not sound again today, the sun was setting and the wash was over.

Mesiree reached her cauldron and heaved her shoulder against it, pushing it over and spilling the cloudy water into the nearby drain. When she had righted the cauldron, Mesiree grabbed the bucket that sat next to it and carried it over to the faucet. Making several trips to the facet and back, dragging the bucket across the flagstones, she filled the cauldron halfway, leaving room for the warm, soapy water that would pour from another chute above her head in the morning. When she had finished Mesiree set the bucket down and sat in exhaustion, resting her back against the cauldron. 

Slowly the washroom began to empty. Those who had homes and families returned to them, those who did not found their own corner to curl up in. Soon the steam that hung heavy in the washroom from the ironers hot water and the full, soapy cauldrons calmed and seemed to thicken, disturbed only by the gentle touch of breath from people already sleeping in the corners. Mesiree, however, remained fully awake. She watched as, somewhere, deep in the depths of the mist that hung in the air, something strange began to stir. Images grew and shifted in the opaque mist. Mesiree watched the dreams form in the mist every night. Perhaps because Mesiree didn't dream herself she felt drawn to these visions. They were her lifeblood. They were her mystery. Mesiree settled herself down, rested her arms on her knees and calmly watched the mist.

Images flitted quickly, silently within the mist. Asking no questions. Making no demands. Gently lulling Mesiree to sleep. Within the mist another, different mist swirled and swelled in a place she could not recognize. There was a tall woman with hair like the leaf stitched into one of the mender's skirts, and a girl with hair like nothing Mesiree had ever seen. Sometimes she could see their faces, but today she could not. The little girl stood facing a small window in the mist. She was watching a boy scream, water was falling all around him and even dripped from his eyes in shapes like the little blue drop stitched into Mesiree's dress. The picture shifted and shivered and a castle rose out of the mist. As the image magnified it seemed to Mesiree that the cloudy-white building was formed from the mist. Suddenly she saw inside the castle and things seemed more solid, there were more colors too. Bright blues and red-golds, vibrant yellow and striking greens. The image shivered again and showed a man with hair she could not understand. Mesiree searched her mind for a color, eventually finding one that fit: lavender. The man had a strange look on his face. 'Sad' she thought, 'strained'.

Suddenly it seemed like the wind picked him up and flung him off the ledge he was standing on. She saw a girl then, standing a little ways away. She opened her mouth as if to cry out and water dripped from her eyes. She flung her arms out and stared with determination even as the water flowed down her cheeks. Mesiree was nearly asleep now and the picture shifted one last time. Just before she fell asleep a face stared out at her with a kind smile and ruby eyes.

~

Well there you go. The plot didn't exactly thicken; it's more like a lot more crap has been added so as to make people forget what kind of soup was being made. I hope you liked it. If you did: review and tell me why. If you didn't: review and tell me why. If you were indifferent: review and…well you get the picture. Anyway, school started this week, so I don't know when another chapter will come out (but as I said before, I'm needy, so it'll probably be soon). I also have another story in the works that I might have to post soon. It is a lot more difficult than this one, I have a huge mass of things to weave in, but I'm having so much fun with it! Now I have to go get a band-aid for my toe.

-Niamh


	4. Misery Ch4

Ok, this next chapter should be dedicated almost completely to Talisman. I have been wallowing in the self-pity of writer's block since I posted the last chapter. The truth was that I actually had this chapter written, the one after it, however, had me utterly stumped. I had nearly abandoned Misery all together in favor of some others I have in the works (I have some pretty interesting ones I hope to post soon) but I came back to this section, discouraged by the plethora of crap and I was only going to read my reviews to boost my ego and here was this cranky review from Talisman. Well it was her review that finally stuck a pin my ass and started me on this story again, so please direct all praise (or criticism, whichever way you want to look at it) her way.

Ah well I'm poor and have no idea how I'm going to pay for college next year, if I owned either of the shows this story is based off of I would have hawked them long ago to buy books. The original characters are mine but I would gladly part with them in favor of tuition. 

Niamh

The prince lay unconscious on the ground, an angry lump already forming on the back of his head. He was young, just thirteen, his soft, lavender hair danced gently in the breeze. His mind could sense the danger that lay so near, his heart screamed at him to do something His friend was there, fighting for him, for the world. He was losing. But the prince could not move, his friend had knocked him out and now all he could do was lay motionless, helpless, a calm exterior concealing a burning rage within.

Trunks woke with a start on the gravity room floor. He groaned and sat up stiffly. The air had cooled considerably during the night and the prince shivered slightly as a cool wind swept through the roofless room. He was used to the nightmares by now, he'd had them nearly every night for thirteen years. They'd been milder last night than they sometimes were; he attributed that to the fact that he'd exhausted himself before he'd fallen asleep. Trunks found that if he worked himself to near collapse the dreams would generally leave him alone most of the night.

Momentarily glancing up at the sky Trunks noted that it boiled an angry black, promising a storm, not the best weather to be flying in. Grudgingly he began to walk back to headquarters, it was so hard to go back to the normal way of doing things after he'd allowed himself a little touch of super man yesterday.

His mother was waiting when he returned, sitting at the table with a cup of tea and a plate of eggs waiting for him.

"Hello!" she said brightly, slowly rising from her chair and walking toward him gingerly, as if every step she took was agony.

"Mother wait!" he said, hurrying to her, letting her grasp his arm for more stability. "You know that you don't have to get up for me."

"Such a good boy." She said softly as he helped her back to her chair. "See, I've made you breakfast, it's eggs, your favorite…Where's Gohan? I've made him some too."

Trunks closed his eyes for a moment and turned away from his mother so that she wouldn't see the sadness etched on his face. "Gohan isn't coming back mother," he said patiently, "remember?"

Bulma looked puzzled for a moment, but then plastered a fake smile on her face and waved her hand in the air like she was shoeing away a fly. "Oh of course I remember dear," she said with false cheer, "it just slipped my mind, that's all."

Trunks sighed softly and sat down in front of the plate she'd set for him. He didn't have the heart to tell her that he hated eggs. 

Bulma had not aged well. Years of fear and loss had taken their toll on her. Her hair, once a brilliant blue, had turned milk white and had begun to thin. On the days that she remembered to comb it, it still retained some of it's former bounce and body, but the days that it hung limp and lifeless were now occurring with greater frequency. The once full and mobile mouth was a thin, pinched line; the rest of her face was full of sags and wrinkles as if weighted down by some terrible sadness. She looked years older than she should have.

The hardest to bear, however, was her mind. Trunks' mother had once been brilliant. Once she could have rambled off the exact quirks and specifications of nearly every technical device on the market, and a few that weren't. Now she had trouble remembering her son's name, or the fact that his best friend was dead.

"Is Gohan coming in soon?" Bulma said loudly, jarring Trunks from his thoughts. "I've made him some eggs too."

Trunks bit his lip, setting his fork back down on his plate of untouched eggs. "Mother," he said softly, "why don't I take you back upstairs and you can rest for a while, would you like that?"

"Alright." Bulma said complacently, "That'd be nice." Bulma began to rise and her son was there in an instant, offering his arm for support. Slowly, inch-by-inch they made their way to the stairs. When they reached them Trunks picked the old woman up in his arms and carried her gently to her bedroom.

"This is nice." She said smiling. "You know your father used to do this sometimes, not when anyone could see of course…" Bulma's eyes seemed to gloss over, "Where is your father anyway," she chirped. "I haven't seen him today."

Trunks paused for a moment on the stairs. "Mom," he said sadly, looking at the frail woman in his arms, pain twisting in his chest, "dad's dead."

"Oh yeah" she said softly, turning away.

When they finally reached her room Trunks set her down gently on the bed and tucked the covers up around her chin, just as she had done when he was a boy.

"Such a good boy," she said, lifting a hand to caress his cheek, "Don't worry, I'm just tired, I'll be better after I rest." Her clouded eyes were clearer then than he'd seen them in days.

After he shut the door Trunks let out a shuddering breath and pressed his back against the cold stone wall. As tears began to slip down his cheeks he pressed the balls of his hands into his eyes and sank in exhaustion to the floor. It was impossible to say how long he sat weeping outside his mother's room; he did not stop or stir until someone very near cleared their throat. In an instant Trunks shot up, angrily scrubbing his cheeks, breathing deep, shattered breaths to try and stop the tears.

"Is it bad today?" Bran asked softly.

"Yeah" Trunks said, glancing back at the door to her room and sniffing slightly, though Bran seemed not to notice.

"The advisors have requested a meeting."

Trunks let out a slightly steadier breath. "Tell them…tell them I've gone for a walk, I'll be back soon." 

Bran nodded and turned to leave.

"Or better yet," Trunks said, causing his advisor to turn back, "you handle it."

"Your Highness-"

"Your better at this than I am, than I'll ever be." The prince interrupted him. "Just tell them I've put my vote of confidence in you and they'll do whatever you say."

Bran looked unconvinced, but Trunks turned on his heel and hurried down the stairs before he could object.

While Trunks had been with his mother the sky had opened it's maw and began to obliterate the city with a heavy sheet of rain, soaking Trunks to the bone the instant he stepped outside. He didn't mind though, the rain would erase the signs of his earlier breakdown and the storm created an interesting atmosphere. The rain soaked his face like tears and the thin howl of the wind seemed to cry misery, if he had been anything other than his father's son, perhaps Trunks would have broken down again. But he was truly the heir of the Saiyan prince; his emotions had been effectively forced back behind his mask of strength.

He walked blindly through the city, barely noticing as the fat heavy raindrops battered him or that the mud under his feet was now nearly two inches deep. No one was out now; they were all huddled together in their homes near their hearths. Not that he would have been able to see them if anyone had ventured out, the wall of water that fell from the sky had effectively blotted out the world with an opaque whiteness that did not reveal anything further that a few inches from his face.

Slowly, so slowly that the prince did not notice until it was too late, the sound of thunder faded from the air and the roar of the rain as it plummeted to the ground dwindled away. Before he know it Trunks was standing in complete silence, still staring at a white wall, completely dry. It was another moment before he realized that the wall he was staring at wasn't a wall at all, but mist, swirling mist, mingling and dancing everywhere. All around him images were flashing in the haze, as if they'd been projected there.

There was a girl playing in the waves of the ocean.

A woman screaming in terror.

An old lady sleeping in a hospital bed.

An infant lying in a basinet.

A girl staring into the depths of an iron cauldron.

A child lying motionless in a coffin.

The images flashed faster and faster until he could no longer distinguish one from the other.

"Misery." A thin threadlike whisper sounded in the mist. "Misery." There was a form solidifying in the vapor, slowly gaining more detail as it drew nearer. It was a woman. She was beautiful, tall with long dark hair. He watched as slender hands grasped a jeweled staff.

"You." Her voice rang through the mist, sweet and regal, full of power, full of loathing. "What do you want here?"

"N-nothing" Trunks stuttered, squinting to try and make out her face. "I don't want anything."

"You've taken enough from me." She said stepping closer so that he could see that her eyes were a deep red, like garnets set in a face of pearl. She looked sad, troubled. Her face was at once terrible and beautiful. There seemed to be no words to describe what he saw.

"Get out" she said her teeth gritted.

'Tell me" he said desperately as the world around him faded. "Who are you?"

"I am misery's mother." She said before she disappeared altogether.

By the time he had gathered enough sense to be aware of anything Trunks found himself standing in the middle of a meadow, far from the walls of his city. Pursing his lips Trunks glanced around quickly, but there was no sign of rain or mist or red-eyed woman. He ran a hand distractedly though is hair before he shot into the air. "Weird" he muttered softly.


	5. Misery Ch5

Ok, so here it is, are you excited? I can't really dedicate this chapter to anyone because you guys suck at being pains in my ass! Naw, even if you have been you wouldn't have gotten anything. I went back to read my reviews because I'm sad (and mostly because I needed a Misty, Talysmin (see, I spelled it right this time, I caught that mistake about a millisecond before I posted, I think it's kind of funny that Alma mentioned it and Talysmin didn't) and Alma fix, because they seem to have abandoned me and then POOF inspiration!

So, for Misty, this still isn't as descriptive as the first chapter. The problem is that I tend to write introductions that are sweeping and elaborate and then in the following sections focus in on thingsÉor something. When it gets down to the part where things actually have to happen all that descriptive skill flies away like a little bird! On the plus side, my comma problem has been getting better I think. I went back and read that first chapter and wanted to shoot myself! I nearly took it down just to add periods!

Anywho, hopefully this means much quicker posts for Niamh, and perhaps some others (HINT HINT) will see her example and follow it (again, in case you missed it, HINT HINT!)

Oh well, enjoy!

Niamh

The rain had ruined the wash the previous day, and it had ruined Mesiree's night. Clothing had to be hung inside the washrooms, which meant that only two loads had been completed. Not nearly enough to finish what the collectors had brought in. Not nearly enough to warrant filling every wash cauldron. Not nearly enough to give Mesiree mist to dream in that night.

She'd sat, curled in upon herself and staring into the middle of the room as she had on every previous night. But no dreams came. Mesiree sat awake until the sun rose. But only small wisps of smoke passed before her eyes. When the bell rang and the soapy water dropped from the door above her cauldron, Mesiree was still awake.

If yesterday had been slow and maddeningly empty, this day could only be called impossibly busy. This day they had nearly two days washing to finish and the drying fields were still an inch deep in mud. Which meant the dryers, who were used to dashing about on the cracked, hard packed ground, were now slipping as soon as they set foot outside the door. A misfortune that, more often than not, ended in an entire basket of clean linens lying in the mud and, once the wash mistress reached him, a very sore dryer.

All these things put together made for a very tense, very testy washroom and a _very_ scary wash mistress.

Mesiree hauled herself up off the floor and waited for the cauldron to finish filling. As the hot water poured in, a soft steam rose from the cauldron and somewhere, deep within it, Mesiree could see dreams beginning to form. Before they had taken shape however, the bell sounded above her and, without even waiting for the buzzer, one of the sorters shoved a load through the chute, barely missing Mesiree's head and splashing her face with hot, soapy water.

As she blew the water out of her mouth and wiped it from her eyes Mesiree heard one of the other washers chuckle.

"No daydreaming today girl" the woman said "wash mistress would tan even your hide for that.

Mesiree nodded and turned back to her cauldron. Generally she paid very little attention to what the others said to her unless they were giving her an order. This comment, however, bubbled somewhere in the back of her mind. What had she meant, Ôeven your hide? She didn't have much time to think though, if they wanted to catch up that day, everyone would have to do twice the normal work load.

By mid afternoon, however, Mesiree had started to fade. The oppressive heat and humidity of the washrooms had begun to drag her down. She desperately needed sleep. Sleep, however, was not an option. As the seventh load of washing dropped from the chute above (still about nine left to wash, according to Mesiree's tally) Mesiree tried to blink her weariness away. She was falling behind and she knew it, it wouldn't be much longer before the wash mistress knew it too.

"Mesiree!

Here it was. _She would tan even your hide for that._

"Mesiree!

She took a deep breath and blinked again, hoping she didn't look too weary before she dashed off to find the wash mistress.

"Gone for most of the day.

Mesiree hadn't really been paying attention to the gossip that day; she had been concentrating too heavily on staying awake.

"Rain like a bed sheet in front of your eyes.

Apparently something had happened yesterday.

"Didn't even go to the meeting that day, sent his advisor.

Something to do with the prince.

"Mesiree!

The girl quickened her pace and tuned out the gossip once more as she appeared at the mistress' elbow.

"What's the problem with you today girl?" the mistress asked harshly, "your sluggish.

With no way to answer her Mesiree only looked woefully at the larger woman. The wash mistress gave a frustrated sigh and began to make exaggerated hand motions.

"Are you hungry?" she asked as she mimed eating, "Or sad?" now she was scrubbing at her eyes "angry, what?

Mesiree folded her hands and laid her head on them, closing her eyes.

"Tired?

Mesiree nodded.

The wash mistress put her hand to her head in a gesture of exhaustion and ordered Mesiree out to the clotheslines, saying someone else would take over her cauldron for the rest of the day.

Mesiree nodded and scampered off to grab an empty basket. The other dryers greeted her with a nod of their heads but nothing more. Their usual gaiety had disappeared. Nearly half of them looked wet and muddy and sulky, a consequence, she assumed, of having fallen and scattered washing into the mud.

The muck nearly covered her toes and slid under her feet every step she took, but the sun shone brightly and the air was clear and Mesiree could feel some of her weariness slip away.

"Came back and went straight to the ruins.

"He'd been gone for hours.

"Silent and looking strange.

"Hours.

Mesiree shook her head and pushed the dryers voices away. She didn't care that the prince had disappeared yesterday, and it didn't matter to her were he went or how he looked. All that mattered to her were the sheets that flapped in front of her face, and the line of washing that stretched to her right.

Pull. Fold. Bend. Stand. Pull. Fold. Bend. Stand. This was simply another pattern. Pull. Fold. Bend. Stand. Mesiree liked patterns; she liked knowing that there was order and that she could trust it.

Pull. Fold. Bend. Stand. Pull. Fold.

"Mesiree

Her head jerked up instinctively. She'd heard her name, but it hadn't been the wash mistress who'd called. A moment later she shook her head and turned back to the clotheslines, deciding she'd imagined it.

"Pull. Fold. Bend. Stand.

"Mesiree

Pull. Fold.

"Mesiree

Bend. Stand.

"Mesiree

It was coming from across the fields; somewhere out beyond the boundaries she had set for herself.

"Mesiree

It seemed to be getting more insistent.

"Mesiree

More demanding.

"Mesiree

Caught between staying within her boundaries, completing the task assigned to her and answering to the call of her name, Mesiree hesitated.

"Mesiree

Finally she abandoned her basket and left the drying fields, with the other dryers gaping after her.

As Mesiree scrambled over the slick stones that littered the grounds across from the drying fields the voice still whispered on the wind.

"Mesiree" it called "Misery

She barely noticed the change in the call.

"Mesiree

These ruins, she had heard, had once been the childhood home of the prince, which perhaps explained why they were allowed to remain intact in a city so scrapped for space and materials.

"Misery

She'd heard that no one set foot in these ruins but the prince, people were terrified of and enthralled with them, just as they were with him. An obsession she could not understand.

"Mesiree

She had cleared the ruins and was now entering one of the other sectors. The call hung in the air and died away. This was, apparently, where it had wanted her to go. People bustled about on the mud-slicked streets, heading home to their families, their warm fires, and their full tables.

Mesiree shook off the thought and the envy it incited. She had enough food, enough warmth, and if she was lonely, perhaps it was her own fault.

"Mesiree

Suddenly the scene before her changed. The air seemed to still and the people froze. Mesiree went cold and her breath caught in her throat. Sweeping over the city wall was an inky thick shadow, so viscous and dark that it seemed to swallow the light and steal the warmth from the air. It rolled over people and they collapsed in its wake. Everything in Mesiree screamed at her to run, to hide herself somewhere, but her feet seemed rooted to the ground and her body felt as heavy as wet linens.

The woman beside her staggered and fell, her screaming child tumbling after her. Mesiree's mouth was gaping open but no sound came from it, her voice seemed to be caught somewhere behind her throat. The shadow was nearly upon her now and Mesiree could feel her whole body tremble. It was hanging in the air before her and within it, just as she had every night within the mist, Mesiree saw images begin to form. Horrible things. A woman screaming, a little girl torn from her home, a glass ball shattering on the ground.

The shadow shuddered and swirled into the form of a man.

"Misery" he said with an oily laugh. He lifted a hand and caressed her cheek, "We will meet again.

Mesiree staggered and collapsed on the ground as the shadow slipped back over the wall. The woman beside her was still breathing shallowly. The child was dead. Mesiree didn't know what to do.

_ Misery_

Yeah, so tell me what you liked, tell me what you didn't, tell me about your three legged dog, just review! Hee hee!

Niamh


	6. Misery Ch6

Alma: Your examples went away! I think I can figure most of what you were saying out; the last one is a little confusing still though. Anywho, the quotation thing is something that must have happened while uploading or something (I went back to check my hard copy, just in case, and they were there, and I could have sworn they were there when I previewed but apparently I don't have the eagle eyes I would like). The your you're thing is a problem I have, I know the difference and usually I can catch it, but sometimes it slips by, sorry! And whatever that last quotation problem was I'm sorry about that too! Thanks for the praise; we all know I lap it up! I think the story will get a lot more character driven from here on out (though who knows what really will come out of this little head of mine).

Misty, you slacker! Hee hee. It's lovely to hear from you darling! "Please explain these mysterious people" Uh-oh, I thought I was only being ambiguous about one person...er...entity...whatever.

And, as Misty and Alma were the ONLY ones to review the last chapter (I felt very abandoned and unloved) I suppose I just have to go directly to the story.

Wait, one more note that was neglected last update. Apparently I suck at writing dream sequences. No, Trunks is not thirteen, that was a dream. Maybe I should just stop writing dreams, except I can't because I really don't think in any sort of linear fashion, so I'll just tell you now, The first part of this story is A DREAM. Got it?

On with the show.

_ You, what do you want here?_

There was hatred burning in her bloody eyes.

_You've taken enough from me._

Her slender fingers reached to wrap themselves around his throat.

_Get out._

Her voice seethed with anger, even as the last breath left his lungs.

_I am Misery's mother._

His vision went dark and she slipped away into the mist.

"When?"

"A few hours ago, no more."

"So long?"

"It's not the sort of thing people proclaim in the streets sir."

Trunks let out a ragged breath and wearily passed a hand over his face. "That makes it three"

"Yes sir"

"Seventy five people"

"No sir," Bran corrected, "sixty"

"Sixty?"

"Yes sir, only about half the sector this time."

"Survivors?"

"Yes sir."

Trunks muttered a curse and shot off into the air. Three attacks in two weeks, and suddenly now there were survivors, suddenly now he could get the answers he needed, suddenly now there was a chance to fight back.

_You've taken enough from me._

The prince shook his head and tried to erase her voice from his mind. It was enough that she had haunted his dreams...

_I am Misery's mother._

He could not afford to let her disrupt his day as well.

Trunks landed in the corner of the sector furthest from the wall. People wandered through the streets. Lost and confused they huddled together in silent groups or wept alone. The people here had seen nothing, but they felt the effects of what had happened nonetheless. Many had lost friends or family, many more wondered if they had.

As he traveled closer to the wall the wailing grew quieter. People stood about empty eyed and frozen, their arms wrapped about themselves as if they were afraid of crumbling in the middle of the street. Here, doctors and collectors and various other workers milled about with more purpose, tending to broken buildings and shattered souls.

The prince carefully approached a man who seemed less brittle than the others.

"Sir?" he asked, gently placing a hand on the man's shoulder, "Sir, can you tell me what happened?"

The man blinked slowly and turned toward the prince. "She went to the market." He said in a ragged voice, "She went and she didn't come back."

"Can you tell me what happened to her?"

"She went and she didn't come back."

Trunks sighed and left the man, heading nearer to the wall. By the time he reached the first casualties he could feel the weight of the sorrow around him. It settled on his shoulders and tightened in his chest. There was a woman not two feet in front of him, shrieking for the child that hung limp in her arms. The doctor kneeling at her side was trying desperately to calm her, but she refused to be comforted.

After a moment Trunks gently pulled the doctor aside. "Did she see anything?"

"She saw too much sir" the doctor said, "That's the problem."

"You can't get anything out of her?"

"Screams, tears, a whole lot of pain, give her time, maybe more."

"How much time?"

"It's hard to say, some people take maybe a few days, some take months, some never recover."

The prince blew out a frustrated breath, "Alright, thank you."

He turned on his heel and nearly trampled a woman who was crouched behind him. She sat all alone, huddled in upon herself, muttering something softly. He wondered for a moment how he had missed her; she sat not two feet from him. Carefully he crouched beside her, hoping desperately for any sort of information.

The woman froze, her lips stopped in the middle of whatever word she'd been repeating to herself. She blinked and looked up at him. The prince watched in silence as her brow knit and her head cocked to the side. Reaching up a hand, she took a strand of his hair and held it for a second before letting it drop and returning her gaze to his face.

This would be the part, he assumed where she would shudder and pull away from him. Where she would remember the stories she'd heard of his legendary temper and cringe. To the prince's surprise, however, the woman only stared at him.

"Are you afraid of me?" he asked softly.

The woman's head cocked even more and her brow knit tighter before she shook her head.

"Did you see anything?"

She nodded.

If Trunks had been any less his father's son, at that moment he would have jumped for joy. But he was too much a Saiyan prince, the control he held over any emotion that wasn't rage was too tight. His only reaction was to take a calming breath in anticipation. It took him a moment to realize the woman wasn't speaking.

"Please," he said, taking her hands into his without thinking "please, I need to know what happened."

The woman looked down at her hands and then back up before she pulled them away from him.

"Please," the prince tried again, pulling his hands back and folding them in what he hoped was an innocuous way in his lap.

The woman shook her head and put a hand to her lips.

"I swear," the prince said confused "if h- it threatened you, you'll be protected, but I need to know what happened."

She shook her head again and repeated the gesture.

"Are you hurt?" the prince asked, trying a different tactic.

She shook her head.

"Have any of the doctors looked at you?"

Another shake.

Trunks called to the doctor he'd been speaking to earlier. "Has anyone looked at her?" He asked when she arrived.

The doctor pursed her lips, "I don't think so," she said shaking her head, "I can't imagine how we missed her."

"She isn't speaking," Trunks said, backing away to give the doctor more room, "I need her to speak."

The doctor nodded and knelt in front of the woman. Carefully checking her over, murmuring in soft tones and smiling gently. After a few moments she stood and shook her head.

"She's fine as far as I can see," the doctor said, "no physical reason for her silence, shock maybe."

Trunks felt like screaming. All the hope he'd so carefully cultivated that morning had gone to seed in a manner of moments. Fifteen people, fifteen survivors, fifteen and only two had seen anything and both were equally unreachable.

The prince turned back to the crouching woman and sighed. "You should head home," he said quietly, "your family will be worried."

As she stood the woman smiled sadly and shook her head. She dusted herself off and gave one lingering glance at the screaming mother before she took a deep breath and stepped away.

"Where do you live?" The prince asked, just as she was turning.

The woman glanced back and gave him a puzzled look.

"I need to know what happened, I need to know where to find you, so that when you can speak again..."

The woman seemed to be struggling to keep from rolling her eyes.

"Where do you live?" Trunks asked again.

She put her hands together and worked them up and down as if she were scrubbing something and then plucked a little at her skirt.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand."

She looked helpless and repeated the gesture.

"The washrooms?" Trunks asked after a moment.

The woman beamed and nodded.

"What are you doing all the way out here?"

She blinked and looked down at her feet.

"You're not supposed to be out here."

She shook her head, still looking down.

Moved by some odd impulse Trunks stepped up beside the woman. "I'll come with you," he said, "they won't yell at you if I'm there."

The woman hesitated for a moment and then nodded without a smile.

She led him back through the sector, weaving through bodies, ducking around people so deftly that he had to work to keep up with her. When they reached the ruins he paused, assuming she would skirt them. Instead she continued on, stopping only when she realized he had fallen behind.

"You're not afraid of them?"

The woman shook her head as if he'd just asked the strangest question and waited as he caught up.

"I thought everyone was afraid of these ruins."

She only shrugged and continued walking.

Her hand began to tremble as she reached for the door, but she seemed to steady herself with a slow breath as she opened it. As they stepped in the entire room froze. Every eye turned toward them. The woman shuffled uncomfortably, as if she were unused to being so visible and seemed to try to shift behind him. An older, matronly woman was bustling toward them with purpose written on her face. The prince could see the woman beside him tense and, unconsciously took a small step in front of her. The older woman, however, did not spare him a second glance. She swept the girl into her arms, hugging her to her breast without saying a word.

After a moment the older woman pulled away from the girl and turned to the prince. "Your highness." She said with a slight dip.

Trunks resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the title and the show of deference. "She was in sector seven," he said instead, 'the doctor said she's fine, though she may be suffering from shock."

At his mention of the sector the woman's eyes widened. "What were you doing there?" she asked, turning to the girl, who only looked sheepish and shook her head.

"She hasn't spoken since I found her." The prince supplied.

The old woman only chuckled. "Sir," she said with a small smile, "she never speaks."

The prince felt his mouth go dry and any grasp on hope he had retained slip away. "Never?" he managed to choke out.

"No sir, she doesn't speak."

"Won't, o-or can't or ... what?"

"I don't know sir, she just doesn't"

Trunks closed his eyes and managed to hold down his anger. He gave a curt nod and left the washroom without another word. As he headed home he resisted the urge to blow something up in his frustration and contented himself with scuffing the ground.

_She doesn't speak._

Even in his anger he could see the irony. This was the only woman who could tell him what had happened and she couldn't tell him because she couldn't speak. There were fifteen survivors and he was nowhere nearer to finding out what had happened than when there had only been bodies.

Trunks shook his head and cooled his temper. His mother would be waiting with dinner and he should have been home half and hour ago. He muttered a curse and shot off into the air.

So this is probably the last update for a while, I'm off to college on Saturday. Hey, does anyone notice that Trunks mutters a whole lot of curses here? I think I may be over fond of that phrase (It's mirrored at the beginning and end on purpose, but I bet it shows up in other chapters)

So have fun kids, and if you are bored go bug Misty or Talysmin to write something, I'm getting impatient (hee).

Niamh 


	7. Misery Ch7

Yeah, so this time Misty was the only one to review, it was very sad. So Misty gets my undying love and the rest of you can go jump in a swamp. Hee.

Anywho, I finally got something written in college, aren't you proud?

Happy birthday Vee (a little late), I'll get to your gift...eventually.

Niamh

_Misery_

_Misery_

_Misery_

_We shall meet again._

_Misery_

The woman near Mesiree was screaming. Her child was dead.

_Misery_

Soon doctors and collectors arrived. They bustled about, fluttering from one victim to another. Treating them and stripping them, sometimes by turns. Buildings stood in ruins; bodies lay strewn out before her.

_Misery_

The woman was still screaming.

The sun began to set and the collectors started to disappear, started to head back to the washrooms. Soon others would come to collect the bodies.

_Misery_

Suddenly there was a man crouching in front of her, looking directly into her eyes. Mesiree sat frozen for a moment. He _saw_ her. She was accustomed to being looked over, stepped over and ordered around, but not to being seen. No one ever saw her.

She cocked her head to one side and studied him for a moment. He was familiar somehow, as if she'd seen him before, but he obviously didn't work in the washrooms. She reached out a hand to study a piece of his hair. Mesiree was certain that his hair would be the trigger in her memory, it was an odd enough color, but the memory refused to come and she quit trying.

The man asked her a question and she answered with a quick shake of her head. Mesiree wasn't sure why she would be afraid of him.

He wanted to know if she'd seen anything. Mesiree shuddered and nodded.

_Misery_

He didn't seem to know that she couldn't speak. He wanted her to tell him things she couldn't say. Things she wouldn't have been able to voice even if she'd had the option. He seemed disappointed, even sad.

"You should head home, your family will be worried."

The words seemed to settle somewhere in her throat.

_Your family will be worried._

She shook her head sadly.

_No, they won't._

The woman was still screaming. Her daughter was still dead. She was still screaming.

He was going to go with her to the washrooms Mesiree wondered, as he walked silently at her side what the washrooms would think when she appeared, after being gone for half a day, with a strange man.

If being seen by one man had disconcerted her what she met when she opened the washroom door terrified Mesiree.

Every eye turned toward her. Everyone saw her. She fidgeted and tried to hide behind the strange man, but he offered very little protection. The wash mistress was barreling toward them and Mesiree wondered what punishment awaited her. But, to her surprise and utter consternation, instead of scolding her the wash mistress pulled Mesiree into her arms.

Mesiree's whole body tensed. This wasn't right, this did not fit any of the patterns she had observed in the washrooms. The wash mistress didn't touch anybody, unless it was to punish them. After a moment the wash mistress let her go and turned to the man.

"Your highness," She said with a slight dip.

She saw him grimace slightly and for a moment Mesiree's world stood still.

_Your highness?_

Any hope she'd held of regaining her invisibility fled with those two words. She shuddered and shifted, this time trying to duck behind the wash mistress.

He was angry, that was obvious enough, but somehow she felt relieved. He would leave now, she couldn't tell him what he wanted to know and he would leave. Perhaps then, after a few weeks, everyone would look over her again.

When the prince had left, turning on his heel and nearly storming out of the washrooms, the entire building awoke with whispers. Mesiree shifted again, drawing herself further behind the wash mistress. The wash mistress, after silencing the room with a single glance, turned to Mesiree and guided her to a chair. With only a few words the wash mistress had summoned food from the kitchens and pushed it into Mesiree's shaking hands.

"Sector four," she muttered shaking her head.

_Misery_

They had moved her closer to the fire, hoping to still her shaking. Mesiree sat, staring blankly into the flames. She had eaten the food they had brought her and someone had already come to take the plate away. There was a pot of tea warming in the fire for her, but Mesiree's stomach was knotted and frozen.

_Misery_

_Your highness_

_We shall meet again_

_Your family will be worried_

_Misery_

Slowly the smoke began to thicken. Around her the washroom was silent, night had come without notice and only a few people remained, curled in the corners. The ironer that the wash mistress had charged with watching over Mesiree for the night snored somewhere off behind Mesiree's chair. Dreams formed unbidden in the smoke and Mesiree watched with wary eyes.

First there was the woman who had always inhabited Mesiree's dreams, but this time she was not smiling kindly. She stood on a blood soaked hill with a staff in her hands. Her face wore a hard mask, barely covering the anger and hatred and sorrow churning beneath the surface.

The mist shifted and the woman seemed frightened. No longer did she stand on the hill, she stood now surrounded only by mist. She seemed to be screaming but no sound came from her throat.

Suddenly the woman's screaming face shifted and churned into the face of the mother, holding her dead child and crying out. Even as she clung more tightly, the little girl's body crumbled and blew away.

The prince's face loomed large in the smoke, first hopeful, then disappointed and finally collapsing in defeat.

The dream ended in the way it had every night since Mesiree could remember, with a man, standing near a ridge. He seemed to be shouting and suddenly the wind flung him into the air and over the edge.

Mesiree jerked and tumbled backwards in her chair. This was the same vision that had haunted every dream. It was the same man, the same ridge and the same wind, only now the man that fell was not anonymous. The face that twisted in rage, confusion and fear was no longer unexceptional.

She pulled away from the fire and tucked herself into a corner, facing away from the smoke and the mist. The prince's face haunting her sleep.

Yeah, I know it was weird...I decided it was supposed to be random and disjointed like that (of course even though it was meant to be that way doesn't mean you can't complain about it).

So who knows when the next chapter will come out, my inspiration has been a little sporadic lately, I've started about eight things, none of them really postable yet. You can probably thank Alma for _this_ update though; her challenge was the only reason it got started, even though I didn't finish it in time.

Niamh


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